


Castle of Glass

by WanderingAlice



Series: Fighting the Current [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of battle, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, mentions of past family violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: After the battle between Crowley and his siblings, Aziraphale takes him home and heals his wounds
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Fighting the Current [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609705
Comments: 22
Kudos: 250





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So here we are again! Thank you so much to everyone who read The Truth Remains! I hope you enjoy this short interlude between TTR and its sequel, A Promise Unfulfilled.  
> Chapter two will be up on 9/25, and you can expect A Promise Unfulfilled to start posting two weeks from tomorrow (September 20th).
> 
> For those of you who have not read The Truth Remains, reading TTR is not required, although much of this story won't make sense without it. You should know that this takes place about two years after the apocalypse. Crowley defended his home and Aziraphale from his siblings, and his identity as the former Raphael was revealed.

Aziraphale has always known Crowley holds secrets. He’d known it from the very first moment they had shared on the walls of Eden, when he had looked into those wonderful golden eyes and wondered _who are you?_ for the first time. Over the years, he has only collected more. Aziraphale can sense them there, just below the surface, never more clear than when Crowley’s eyes grow distant and pained, and for just a moment Aziraphale can see the true depth of his agony. For just a moment, then, Aziraphale can almost, _almost_ reach through to the heart of him.

But it never lasts. Between one blink and the next, a wall comes down between them like bulletproof glass. Aziraphale can still sense it, still feel the pain hidden just below the surface. But there will be no reaching through that wall. No easing the ache inside he _knows_ is still there. No chance to chase his secrets into the light and drive the pain from them.

But that was then. And this is now. And now Crowley lies here in their bed, secrets laid bare for Aziraphale alone to see - written in the scars that adorn his skin. He looks up at the angel with dull, exhausted eyes, too tired even to speak. Aziraphale can feel the way the weariness has settled in his bones. How much strength must it have taken, to stand against his own siblings? To face down four archangels, alone, and refuse them entry into their home? And how much more, to relive his worst memory and then face down Death himself? It had taken both of them to get him inside, and all of the angel’s strength to help him up the stairs and to their room.

“Rest now, my dear.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead and gently caresses the side of his face. There’s soot in his hair, the angel notices, and drying blood on his skin.

_Thanks, angel_. His gratitude fills their bond, along with his love. He closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

Aziraphale turns to the door, intent on fetching water and a cloth to wipe the blood clean from his love. He will not risk summoning it. Not when a miracle might make it holy.

Fear pulses down the bond, and Aziraphale spins around to see Crowley trying to push himself up with arms as steady as jelly. He returns to the bed and eases the demon back down onto the pillows with gentle hands.

“It’s alright,” he says softly. “I’m just going to the bathroom to get some water. I’ll be right back, but I need you to lie down now, alright?”

Crowley’s hand catches his sleeve as he starts to step back. _Don_ _’t go_. His mental voice is small and tired, and Aziraphale knows it’s the exhaustion. He would never allow the angel to see him this vulnerable, if he had the strength. But he also remembers the agony in Crowley’s voice, when the memory of his Fall had overtaken him. _It hurts. So alone, it hurts._ He’ll never be able to forget the desperation and fear in that cry.

“Be at ease, love,” he says, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead. “I have you. You are not alone anymore.” _You won_ _’t ever be alone again_ , he adds within their bond. _I will not allow it_.

Crowley sighs and releases him, hand falling limp at his side.

“Stay right there,” Aziraphale tells him. “I’m just going to get some water. I won’t go any further than the bathroom, I promise.”

_Safe_? The question is so faint, Aziraphale isn’t even certain Crowley intended to ask it. But he answers anyway.

“Yes. We’re safe. You’re safe, dearest. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Crowley shakes his head, pointing tiredly at Aziraphale’s chest. _You. Safe?_

Something breaks in Aziraphale at that. His love is exhausted, wounded, and had just been forced to relive the worst moments of his long, long life. And yet here he is, far more concerned about Aziraphale’s safety than his own.

“I’m safe,” he reassures him. “Not a scratch on me. I promise.” His clothes are covered in blood, but none of it is his own. He caresses Crowley’s cheek with a copper-stained hand and smooths a gentle thumb over a sharp cheekbone. “Sleep now, my love. I won’t go far.”

Reassured, Crowley gives a faint nod. Aziraphale reluctantly withdraws his hand and steps away. The bathroom is only a few feet from the bed. Even still, he doesn’t want to leave him. Not like this, broken and vulnerable and weak with exhaustion. But he knows, too, that Crowley needs healing. He closes his eyes against that memory, stifling a sob. It was still so fresh in his mind. Emerging from the teleportation, just in time to see Crowley collapsing to the ground, bleeding, surrounded by four stunned archangels. Holding him, helpless, as his life-force drained away. It is not a memory he will ever be able to forget, and the pain of it will linger yet for many centuries. Twice now, he has felt Crowley die. And twice, he has been helpless to prevent it. Useless. Sent away for his own safety while his beloved fights and dies.

_Never again_ , he swears to himself. He will never again allow Crowley to walk into danger alone, even if it means he might be destroyed. He will never again allow himself to be helpless in the face of Crowley’s death.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and holds back another sob as he takes in the sheer amount of blood on his clothes. There’s just _so much_ of it. The sleeves of his jacket are nearly black with it at the cuffs, and splashes of scarlet can be found far past his elbows. His shirt is a lost cause, so thoroughly stained not even a miracle can get it clean. He strips there in the bathroom, leaving his coat to soak in a tub of water. It might not be salvageable, but he wants to at least try. The shirt and trousers he discards in a pile by the door, to be disposed of later. His underthings, too, are too damaged to be saved, and join the pile on the floor. He uses a quick miracle to clean the blood from his skin and hair - he’d prefer a long shower, but that can come later, when Crowley is capable of joining him perhaps.

Once clean, he changes into a warm sweater and collects a pair of soft black pajamas from their closet, before retrieving a bowl of water and some clean cloths. He stops by the medicine cabinet and collects a bottle of ointment and a roll of bandages, though he hopes he won’t need them. He’s never been as good at healing as Crowley, after all.

He was gone for no longer than five minutes, but when he returns to their room he finds Crowley already deeply asleep. He has shifted, too, until he lays sprawled across their bed, taking up far more space than his slim body could reasonably be expected to inhabit. His face is not peaceful. It never is, Aziraphale knows. He has seen Crowley asleep in every possible position - and some that by rights should not have been possible at all. The only time he has ever seen him peaceful is when he’s wrapped tight and safe in Aziraphale’s arms. Here, now, after everything that happened this day, his expression is twisted and harsh - lined with sharp pain. It makes something in the angel ache deep inside.

Aziraphale goes to him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m here, dear heart,” he says, and watches as his face relaxes a small amount. “Just rest,” he adds softly. “I’m going to clean you up now.” Deeply asleep, Crowley’s only reply is a soft snore.

“Let’s see how bad this is,” Aziraphale murmurs, and reaches for Crowley’s shirt. It is little more than bloody rags at this point, and he uses a knife to cut it off rather than risk causing Crowley more pain. The demon squirms and whimpers in his sleep as Aziraphale is forced to pull away pieces that had stuck to the skin, until Aziraphale sooths the sting with gentle fingers and a pulse of healing power. His jeans are easier, at least, and soon all of his clothes have joined the pile of things to be destroyed. Aziraphale wishes that removing all his pain would be so simple a task.

He has so far avoided giving too much attention to the terrible wound that had brought them to this point. That giant gash inflicted by Michael’s sword, cauterized when he’d called down lightning in a desperate attempt to re-start a heart that had ceased to beat. Now he must. He steels himself, taking a deep breath. Then he looks at the mess of Crowley’s chest.

His efforts to save Crowley’s life are immediately evident in a ragged electrical burn that covers most of his torso, angry red and blackened around the deepest parts. It makes him sick to look at, and more guilt settles heavy in his stomach. Yes, Michael made the initial wound. But the burns were all from him. It had been manageable, when he’d just been focusing on small parts around the fabric of his shirt. But now, to see the expanse of him, his pale red-stained skin broken and marred by burns that stretch in ropes across his body like the product of some insane artist… it’s almost more than he can withstand. But withstand it he will, for Crowley’s sake.

Taking another deep breath, he reaches for the pattern of Crowley’s life.

His own pattern appears with it, their lines woven together by Crowley’s expert hand. There are differences now, though, he notices. In place of the loops and knots Crowley had used, the joins between the two patterns are now soldered together, the points of connection melted and combined so thoroughly that there will never again be a way to untangle them. They’ll never know which of them did it. Perhaps it was him, when he called the lightning down to restart Crowley’s heart. Perhaps some of that power hard burned into their patterns. Or perhaps it had been Crowley, when the pain in his mind ignited his pattern, burning through his soul like wildfire until Aziraphale’s essence snuffed it out. Or perhaps it was both of them together, their love and desperation to keep each other alive burning through their combined patterns until the heat of it melted them together. It hardly matters. What does is that they are both here, and they are both alive.

He finds the grey and broken places in the pattern, the torn and tattered threads that Crowley’s sister ripped open when she attacked. He can feel the rot growing in the lines, feeding off the places where infection has already begun to set in.

_This won_ _’t do_ , he thinks, struggling to push away the anger that fills him when he thinks of what the archangels have done. He does not think he will ever forgive them for this, or for all the other wounds they have caused his love. But Crowley does not need his anger now. His rage will only cause more hurt. So he swallows it down and focuses instead on drawing on his own healing power. His fingers glow faintly with blue light, and he rests his hands in the lines on Crowley’s chest, channeling the life force of the universe into his demon. He works slowly, carefully, taking his time with each line of the pattern, chasing out the grey until it shines a bright sunlit gold.

Crowley’s pattern fights him. There are places where his healing light cannot reach, no matter how hard he tries. He does not have the power to heal him completely, exhausted as he is. Aziraphale was never a healer, and he used so much of his power today, standing against Death and refusing to allow him to take his demon. At last, when he has wrung every shred of power from his essence and burnt out the worst of the grey and damaged lines, he gives in. He can only close the wounds, and start the process. The deeper healing will have to come from Crowley himself.

It isn’t fair. He hates that there isn’t a quick fix, at least for the physical wounds. Crowley deserves so much better than a partial healing, but it’s all he has to give. He knits skin and muscle together, flooding more light into his pattern, but the stubborn greyness at the center stays. It is enough, at least, to ease the pain for now. The rot is gone, and the wounds will not spread. They will have time enough to finish this healing at Crowley’s pace. His wonderful demon who goes far too fast and far too slow at the same time.

“There now,” he says to the sleeping demon. “We’ll get the rest in the morning.” He expects that they will both need to sleep for some time after all of this. By the time they wake, their power will have been restored. But first, he has one more thing he must do.

He doesn’t even have enough of a miracle left in him to heat the water, which has cooled now to room temperature. It will have to do. He dips the cloth in the bowl, and takes Crowley’s hand in his. Gently, he rubs the cloth over his skin, wiping away the rust-red flakes of dried blood. He pauses a moment, cleaning the lines of his palm. There, he can see it now. A thin, white line. Slightly raised, starting at the base of his thumb and crossing his whole palm.

Aziraphale remembers feeling it, there under the skin when he wore Crowley’s body. He’d been shocked when all his scars had started rising up when he took over his physical form, until Crowley had reached out and taken him by the hand, sending out a pulse of power that hid them all. Crowley had assumed that was the end of it, that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice them any longer. But Aziraphale _had_ noticed. He had felt them under the skin, just a breath away from becoming visible. Terrible scars, and so very many of them. This one had caught his attention, though he hadn’t let himself wonder at it. Not until he’d heard that bright laughter, free and unclouded by pain for the first time in six thousand years.

It had been the laughter, that finally forced his mind to see what had been before him all this time. Crowley’s laughter. Bright and warm and real. The same laugh that had been the first heard in all of Heaven. The laughter of the archangel Raphael. It had been then, that he’d thought of the scar he had felt. The thin line across his palm. And of the scar he had caused, when Raphael had tried to teach him how to heal.

He traces it now, remembering that day in the Garden so long ago, and the flowers they had created together. A bright day, full of laughter and love, before the shadow of the War had fallen over them. Gently, Aziraphale presses a kiss against the scar, grateful for how warm and solid Crowley’s hand is now, here in his grasp. He can feel the calluses on the demon’s fingers, rough against his own, softer hands. These are another kind of scar, the badges of one who has spent much of his life wielding a sword. These hands have protected Aziraphale so many, many times. More times, he thinks, than Crowley will ever willingly admit to. It scares him, even as it warms him, the thought of all those times Crowley fought alone. He cannot allow it to happen again. He does not think he could survive it now, if Crowley died a third time.

He wets the cloth again, and moves up Crowley’s arm, carefully wiping the blood and dirt away. He finds more scars. Marks of teeth and fangs and claws. The legacy of six thousand years of battles. Some are still harshly visible, stark lines against tanned skin. Recent fights, comparatively speaking. None, he believes, are less than two years old at least. Crowley hasn’t had a need to fight since the failed apocalypse. Not, at least, until today. But some of these scars are far too new, less than a decade old.

“How many times have you gone alone, to protect me?” Aziraphale asks the sleeping demon. _How many times have you put yourself in danger, so that I wouldn_ _’t have to bloody my hands?_ His fingers trace the edges of a bite mark and travel up along the lines of a dagger’s cut. Someday, he will ask for the stories behind these scars. Someday, Crowley might even be honest when he tells him.

Many more scars are older. Some so old they’ve almost faded away to nothing. There are more of these than the newer scars, the legacy of a healer, used to fighting with a staff, adjusting to the use of claws and fangs and sword. Aziraphale suspects he will find more wounds on Crowley’s back from those early years - before he learned to fight without his siblings guarding his blind spots.

On his shoulder, Aziraphale finds a series of burns, perfectly circular, at regular intervals. A deliberate pattern. For a moment he frowns, smoothing a thumb over one of them, before he realizes. He recalls Crowley’s words, that day he rescued him in the Bastille. _My lot don_ _’t send rude notes_. These are not battle-scars. These are from Hell. From Lucifer’s torturers. Divine wrath builds behind Aziraphale’s eyes, and it takes a monumental effort to swallow it back. Crowley does not need his wrath right now. But he traces the shape of them and makes himself a promise. If he ever finds the one who put these here, they will pay with a hundred times they pain they have caused.

Aziraphale takes a clean cloth from the stack and moves on. Crowley had only recently started growing out his hair again, and soon it is as clean as a wet cloth can make it. When he wakes, Aziraphale will wash it for him properly, but this will do for now. His face is ashen beneath the grime, the harsh, pained lines becoming more evident as Aziraphale gently wipes away the dirt and blood. There’s a scar on his temple, just above his eyebrow, jagged, as if he’d hit his head on a rock once.

“Why didn’t you heal all of these?” the angel whispers, running the pad of a finger along the line and then down to smooth out the deep crow’s feet at the corner of Crowley’s eyes. He had the power, and the skill. None of these smaller wounds should have left so much as a mark on him. But here they are all the same, as much a part of Crowley’s essence as the scar Aziraphale had left when he first learned to heal. The only answer Aziraphale can think of breaks his heart. Perhaps a part of Crowley, however small or unconscious, believes he _deserves_ these scars, and the pain that caused them.

He turns to Crowley’s other arm, and finds just as many scars. Aziraphale remembers a particularly vicious set of claw marks - a souvenir of his battle with Asmodeus. Aziraphale had healed these himself, along with his cracked skull, broken ribs, and worse claw marks down his sides. He hadn’t understood then, why Crowley would risk his life like that. Why would a demon stick his neck out so far as to fight a Prince of Hell? He had told himself it was rivalry, some internal Hellish game of politics. He hadn’t wanted to see, then, that it was just one more instance of _this_ demon protecting him, even at the risk of his own life. He knows better now.

He cleans the blood from Crowley’s legs next, unable to face the larger scars he knows he’ll find on his chest. He finds more claw and bite marks here. His fingers catalog each one, memorizing the shapes of sword wounds and scratches, burns and weals. To his surprise he also finds scales. Tiny clusters of them, dotted like constellations up his legs and hips. He traces a trail of them, surprised by their warmth, until it disappears under his back. Aziraphale wants to turn him over, to see if they travel up his spine like he suspects, but doesn’t want to risk moving him too much. Crowley has always kept such careful control over his corporation before, the very few times he has seen him completely unclothed. It is a revelation, to see all of him now like this. He hopes that now, with their souls bound together, Crowley will trust him enough not to hide himself away again.

At last, Aziraphale turns to collect the last clean cloth, dipping it in the now-cooled water. He has cleansed all of Crowley but his back, and his chest. He takes a deep breath now, and turns his eyes to his larger scars. Even under the dirt and blood, he can see them so very clearly. The new burns do not obscure these, the worst of his wounds. They stand out now, as stark as the day he had first healed them six thousand years ago. The physical manifestation of the endless void of Crowley’s pain. A clean line at the base of his throat. A deep, massive scar down his side. And a round puncture would just above his heart. Aziraphale can still feel the memory of Uriel’s blade piercing his skin as if he had lived it himself. A sharp, burning pain that seemed to consume him from within. He reaches out with trembling fingers, holding the cloth to wipe away the blood.

A vice-like grip around his wrist stops him. Crowley. Aziraphale looks up into eyes as hard and cold as ice. There is no awareness there. No recognition, or that familiar warm light. Aziraphale has seen this look before, on dark nights when his demon wakes suddenly from a nightmare, a desperate scream on his lips. He knows now to go still, move carefully, and wait for him to remember where and who he is. The knowledge is hard-won. He has scars of his own now, from the first of those dark, terrible nights.

He waits, still and silent, his other hand, empty, palm-out in the air. Slowly, deliberately, Crowley loosens his grip and Aziraphale steps back, giving him space.

“You are safe, my dear,” he says quietly. “You’re home.” He does not say ‘it’s okay’. It isn’t. But it’s getting there, slowly, with time.

Awareness trickles back into those beautiful golden eyes. He blinks, a hand coming up to rub his forehead, and the tension in the room breaks.

“Angel?”

“I’m here, love.” He waits for Crowley to reach for him, before he moves back to his side, taking the reaching hand in his. His demon looks at him, searchingly, cataloging every aspect of his appearance, looking for anything out of place. It’s a look he’s known for centuries. He can’t believe it took him so long to understand what it meant.

“I’m safe,” Aziraphale reassures him. “Not a scratch on me.”

“What were you doing?” Crowley’s voice is rough with exhaustion.

The angel looks down to their joined hands, and gently smooths a thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. “I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought you might be more comfortable clean.” He gestures with the still wet cloth, and Crowley frowns, his eyes flickering to the very visible scars they can both see on his arm. It occurs to him now that Crowley might not have wanted him to see his scars like this. That he might hate the idea that Aziraphale had been studying them, cataloging them, memorizing the marks of each wound he hadn’t been quick enough or strong enough to avoid.

“I’m sorry,” he says once more, afraid that he has overstepped yet again. “I know you don’t want me to see. I won’t do it again.” He starts to turn, reaching for the clean pajamas he’d brought Crowley, when the demon takes his wrist once again.

“It’s alright,” he says quietly, looking away. “ _You_ can touch them, if you want.”

Aziraphale tries not to revel in the implications in his tone. The emphasis on ‘you’, as if to say ‘only you may do this’. Only Aziraphale is allowed to see. Only Aziraphale is allowed to touch.

“Are you… are you sure?” He wants to, but he has to be certain Crowley means it.

The demon’s lips quirk up in a reluctant smile. “Yeah.”

Still, Aziraphale waits until Crowley meets his eyes. Crowley makes a small, frustrated sound and tugs at the wrist he still holds, pulling the angel’s hand down until his palm rests flat on his chest, over the scar that Uriel had left.

“Thank you, love,” he says quietly. Crowley’s heart is beating quickly under his hand, a staccato of life pulsing against his fingers. He lets his hand rest there for a moment, just taking it in. Crowley is warm and solid, reassuringly real. The demon loosens his grip on Aziraphale’s wrist, softly brushing his fingers against the back of the angel’s hand before dropping them to his side. He watches Aziraphale’s face with open, unguarded eyes.

The scar tissue above his heart is thick and rough, as raw as if it had been only yesterday that Aziraphale found the demon bleeding in Eden’s dirt. He feels it now with careful fingers, tracing the shape against his skin. He can see, too, the mark it makes in Crowley’s essence, a place in the pattern of his life where the golden lines are slightly less bright. He gently wipes away the blood around the scar, tracing it with his fingers. He glances up at Crowley’s face, and sees him watching with tired eyes.

When he looks away, his gaze is drawn to another scar, the dark line at the base of Crowley’s throat. A harsh reminder of the moment when Gabriel slit his throat for the crime of leaving them. Aziraphale’s hand drifts up, fingers dragging along the demon’s smooth skin. The ropey burn scars mar the skin between the wound Uriel gave him and the legacy of Gabriel’s selfish rage. The angel follows the path they left, gently cleaning away the dirt and grime from today’s battle, until, just before his fingers reach the ancient scar.

He stops then, looking up to meet Crowley’s eyes. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” Crowley nods, but his voice is strained.

Aziraphale lets his hand rest on the demon’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Crowley looks away. “They’re… not very pretty, are they?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs, smoothing his thumb over the edge of the dark scar. He knows how much it must have cost him to admit it, when he takes such care to always have a pleasing appearance. “No, they are not. But-” He lifts one finger from Crowley’s skin, holding his gaze to emphasize his point. “They are part of you. And I love you, however you look.” And then he leans down to kiss the ruined skin at the base of his throat.

Crowley makes a shocked sound, but does not pull away.

Aziraphale turns back to the mark Uriel left. “I am grateful for your scars,” he says, pressing another kiss to the ancient wound. “Do you know why?”

“I… no. Why?” his demon’s voice is rough, thick with emotion as he watches Aziraphale move to kiss his side, on the place where Sandalphon had cut him.

“Because,” Aziraphale rests one hand over Crowley’s heart, feeling the rapid beat beneath his palm. With the other, he caresses the side of Crowley’s face. “They mean that whatever danger you faced, you survived. And you came back to me, just like you promised.”

Crowley leans into the caress, bringing up his own hand to cover the angel’s. His eyes are wide and vulnerable as he searches Aziraphale’s expression to find the truth of his words.

“I was so scared today,” the angel murmurs. “I thought I had lost you. I was certain of it, in fact. When I woke up, alive, with you in my arms, still and cold…” He swallows back the fear that rises up in him even now, with Crowley here and vital beneath him. “I thought I had failed. That Azrael had taken you. And I was ready to burn down all of Heaven and Hell and the universe itself, if that was what it took to get you back.” He chokes on a sob, the remembered force of his anger terrifying in its intensity. “But I didn’t have to. You came back to me, once again. Just like you always do.”

Tears spill from his eyes, splashing down onto Crowley’s bare skin. He had been so close to losing him today, for good this time. He doesn’t know if he could bare it, if it happens again.

“Hey, hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley reaches out, tugging him gently until he’s lying on the bed, his head on Crowley’s chest, tucked under his chin. “Come here.” Warm arms, still strong despite his weariness, wrap around the angel and hold him close. Lips press against the top of his head, murmuring reassurances softly into his hair. Like this, he can hear Crowley’s heart beating, feel the rise and fall of his chest each time he breathes. Proof that he is real. That he is alive.

_I_ _’ll always come back_ , Crowley’s voice sounds in his mind. He can feel him through the bond, too. Exhausted, wounded, terribly sad. But also so very full of love. _I promised you, didn_ _’t I? Even if I’m not the same anymore, I will do everything in my power to come back to you._

_I believe you_ , Aziraphale tells him, projecting as much of his own love as possible through the bond. He wants to flood Crowley’s mind with it, burning away every last little bit of his pain. He lets his consciousness settle into the place where their souls are joined. _I just wish you wouldn_ _’t go courting danger. We could have faced your siblings together, and it might not have come so close to disaster today._

_I know_ , Crowley’s mental voice is frighteningly weak. _I promise, I won_ _’t go off alone like that again._

Aziraphale closes his eyes, letting himself just feel Crowley, the warmth of him underneath his body, the steady beat of his heart in his ear, the brightness of his love that fills their minds. _You had better not_ , he threatens. _I_ _’ll know if you do._

The demon chuckles, and Aziraphale can feel the exhaustion pulling at him. Pulling at them both.

_I_ _’m so tired_ , Crowley says, his mental voice the equivalent of a yawn. _Used too much power today._

_Then sleep_ , Aziraphale advises him, already feeling himself starting to drift off.

_You_ _’ll stay?_ His demon asks, arms pulling tight around him.

_I_ _’ll stay_ , he agrees, flooding their bond with comfort and love. _I promise, dear. I_ _’ll be right here when you wake up._

Safe in his arms, Crowley sighs, and once more drifts off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I'm excited to return to this story, and share with you the next piece of Crowley and Aziraphale's journey. You can expect the first chapter of the sequel, A Promise Unfulfilled, to go up this weekend!!

Crowley wakes to a warm, solid weight on his chest. His whole body feels as if it had been ground up and then fed through a meat grinder, but his mind is the calmest it’s ever been. He can feel a presence in his thoughts, calming, soothing. A soul bound to his. He touches the bond with the barest hint of a thought, and knows beyond doubt the being on the other end. Aziraphale. His steady rock in the storm, filling the void with the calming waters of his presence. For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley feels _whole_. The void is no longer screaming within him, and his thoughts are not filtered through layers of pain and thick mental walls. The relief is so complete it becomes almost another kind of pain.

Something tickles his nose and he turns his face away from it, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the light streaming in from their windows. As he does so, someone groans, and the weight on his chest shifts a little. He opens his eyes to a cloud of soft white hair. Aziraphale, curled up on his chest and fast asleep.

Crowley can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, soft and fond and full of astonished love. He presses a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head and wraps his arms tighter around him.

“Mm… Good morning,” Aziraphale mumbles, turning to press his face against Crowley’s shoulder.

The demon hums, not quite willing to be awake. He closes his eyes again, content just to stay right here, smelling Aziraphale’s familiar scent - the sweet and spicy smell of old books, cocoa, and myrrh. A feeling of agreement filters to him through the bond, along with the impression of his own scent - sulfur, forge-fire, and sage. Aziraphale’s contentment flows through him, the feeling of warmth and safety and home. The angel has settled fully into the bond while they slept, a piece of his mind coming to rest within Crowley, as part of Crowley has taken residence within him. It is a sensation he has not felt in six thousand years. It should be more novel to him, he thinks. But it isn’t. It feels as if this was always how it was meant to be. Like the final piece of a puzzle, finally slotted into place. It is still the very best thing he has ever felt.

The events of the previous day feel far off in this comfortable room, so distant from the harsh cold snow outside their gate. If it weren’t for the pain in his chest and the lingering exhaustion he could almost wonder if it had happened at all. There will be repercussions from this, he knows, but here in bed with Aziraphale it is hard to be concerned. His siblings can seek him out when they are ready. And if they try again to kill him or harm Aziraphale, he will fight back. He doesn’t want to think about the look on Michael’s face when she attacked him, part heartbreak, part agony, part animal rage.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, feeling the change to his emotions.

_It_ _’s nothing,_ he says, unconsciously replying within their bond. And then, because he had promised to do better he adds _I was just thinking about yesterday._ The place in his mind where his siblings were once bound to him is still there, still raw and bleeding. But Aziraphale’s essence has filled the void around it, muting it, keeping the pain at bay.

_I see_. The angel’s disapproval is obvious. _You should not have tried to face them alone._ Then he softens, projecting love and sympathy through their shared mind. _But I am so sorry you had to go through that. And sorrier still that I was the cause._

_Actually_ _…_ Crowley frowns, remembering Gabriel’s shocked expression, on the day he had left Heaven wearing Aziraphale’s body. _I think it was my fault. I think they could sense me somehow, when I was up there being you. I must have let something slip, just enough to tip them off. I think that was why they came._

_Oh._ Aziraphale considers his words. _I see. Yes, that would make sense. Still. I wish you had never had to fight them._

_Me too,_ he agrees, sighing and holding his angel close. _I wonder if they_ _’ll come back, now they know…_

_They will,_ Aziraphale sounds certain. _How could they not? Demon or no, you are still their brother._

Crowley hums, not willing to contemplate yet what that will mean. _I_ _’m not letting them close to you again,_ he says instead, sure, at least, of that.

_And I,_ Aziraphale says, with deadly certainty in his voice, _will not let them hurt you ever again. You have suffered far too much at their hands._ There’s an undercurrent of anger there that Crowley had never expected. The words fizz with barely restrained lightning, and Crowley feels the way Aziraphale’s body grows tense at the thought. He can all too easily imagine Aziraphale standing between him and his siblings, just as he had tried to stand between him and Death. It sends a jolt of fear through him, and he reflexively tightens his grip on the angel.

_Don_ _’t,_ he says, unable to keep the fear from their bond. _You can_ _’t fight them_.

His angel shifts, turning until he can rest his forearms on Crowley’s chest and raise himself up just enough to look him in the eyes. “I will not allow them to hurt you again,” he repeats, sea-blue eyes hard. “They will not take you from me.”

“Angel…” Crowley can think of nothing to say to that. His emotions are a mix of gratitude, fear, sorrow, and love. He wants to believe Aziraphale, but he also knows that, however much the angel means it, he won’t be able to protect him. Crowley has always and ever been the guardian of others. He knows too well that even those who swear they will protect him will fail in the end. The evidence of that is written plainly in the scars that adorn his skin. He turns his head away, rather than let his angel see the truth in his eyes.

“I swear it,” Aziraphale says in ancient language of the archangels, that ceremonial tongue in which they utter last rights, blessings, and oaths. Crowley turns back, eyes wide in wonder. “If it is in my power to prevent it, you will suffer no more harm from the ones who call themselves your siblings.”

They both feel a shudder in the air as his oath becomes part of the universe. Crowley can only look at him, wordless, shocked beyond speech by his actions. Not once, in all his long life, had anyone sworn themselves so fully to him. Even Lucifer’s and Michael’s promises to protect him had been spoken in the lesser tongue of angels. Words that were not binding, as the oath Aziraphale has made. To break an oath spoken in the ceremonial tongue… the universe itself would exact vengeance. It is as binding as a blood oath, and far less easily broken.

“Then so I swear,” Crowley replies, at last, in the same language. “To uphold my promise to return to you, in any form I can. Until the memory of me is wiped from the fabric of creation.” The words feel stilted and heavy on his tongue, the formality of them uncomfortable after so long, but he means every one.

Aziraphale smiles then. “Good,” he says, in English. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” He lets himself relax back down against Crowley’s chest, wrapping his arms around the demon. “I don’t ever want to feel the way I did yesterday again, when I thought I’d lost you. I don’t think I can bear a third time.”

“And you won’t,” Crowley promises. He’s sworn the oath now, and cannot break it. The laws of the universe will not allow it. And moreover, they are bound together now. He would never wish for Aziraphale to feel that same pain he has carried for six thousand years, the ragged ends of his bonds broken and bleeding into his soul for eternity. He can already feel the remnants of yesterday’s fear filtering through to him from the angel. The sharp pain of those desperate moments when he had held Crowley’s lifeless body in his arms. He will not allow Aziraphale to feel that pain a third time.

He wraps his arms around the angel, enjoying the feel of him there in his arms, soft and safe and steady. Without Aziraphale, he _would_ be dead, this time for good. He’d been offered his old life back. Heaven. His siblings. His Mother’s love. And he had rejected it. Rejected it in favor of everything he has built for himself here. His home. His garden. His car. His friends. And his angel. Above all, his angel. Who accepts him as he is, and not as he wants him to be. Whose love is not conditional. With whom he has found a place where he does not walk on that knife’s edge between acceptance and rejection, always wondering if this next question is the one that pushes him over the side. It is Aziraphale that has given him the space to forge his own identity, separate from the expectations of Heaven, or Hell, or even his siblings. It’s more than he ever thought he could have.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

Aziraphale laughs. “My dear,” he says, “I would have to be as blind as a _rock_ to miss it.” He moves then, until he can take Crowley’s face in his hands. The demon watches him, trusting him more than he’s trusted anyone since he first beheld God’s Great Plan. They stay there for a moment, drinking in the sight of one another, the bond between them pulsing with love.

“You don’t always say it with words, true,” Aziraphale tells him quietly. “But it shines through in so many other ways. I don’t know how I ever could have believed otherwise. You say it with the gentleness of your hands when you touch me. You say it when you stand between me and even the slightest hint of danger like the most steadfast of shields. And in the way you watch over me, just as you ever have.” He gently caresses Crowley’s cheeks, smoothing careful thumbs over his cheekbones. “You say it again and again, in so very many ways. I do not know what I did to deserve you, but I will always be grateful to whatever power in the universe brought you to me.”

And then, he leans down and kisses him. Through the bond, Crowley can feel everything Aziraphale feels. His trust, his adoration, his gratitude, and his love. He responds in kind, letting Aziraphale feel his sorrow, his love, his hope, and his faith. Not faith in God, no, but rather faith in Aziraphale, and in this relationship they are building between them. Thirteen years ago, he could never have imagined having this. Now, he knows, he will never again be able to live without it. Having tasted the apple, he cannot return to the Garden. But just like Eve, he does not even want to. This, here, _this_ is home. Wherever Aziraphale is, that’s the only place he wants to be. He surrenders to the kiss, drawing Aziraphale closer and opening his mind further, showing him how to exist within the bond, letting their essences mingle together as their bodies lie entangled on the bed. He can feel his own hands on Aziraphale’s back, just as the angel feels his own fingers digging into the flesh of Crowley’s shoulders. He looks up into his own yellow eyes, Aziraphale’s sea-blue shining from his face. The bond flows between their minds, joining their very souls together.

“There now,” Aziraphale says when he pulls away, grinning now at the astonished, star-struck look on Crowley’s face. “I think we both need a shower. And then, if you’re rested enough, we should check your healing. I couldn’t quite finish it last night.”

“I- uh-” it takes a few tries for the demon to find his voice. “I- yeah. Yeah. Sounds good.” He watches in stunned silence as Aziraphale stands. The angel gently caresses the side of his face and gives him one more lingering kiss before vanishing into the bathroom.

The demon sits, then, wincing as half-healed wounds twinge against the pull of his muscles. Alone, he has a moment to take stock of himself. His emotions want to run wild, but the steady rock of Aziraphale within the bond calms them. He will have to face what happened yesterday, and soon, but for now he has space to breathe. It is the physical wounds he needs to worry about now. They had been easy enough to ignore before, with the warm weight of an angel on his chest. Now, without Aziraphale there to distract him, he is suddenly all too aware of every ache and pain in his battered corporation. His body feels far more damaged than a simple blade through his chest and he remembers the images Azrael had conjured, showing him Aziraphale calling lightning to restart his dying heart. Burns, then. Bad ones, if the pain he’s in is any indication. The damage goes deeper than the physical, he’s almost certain. Michael’s sword had cut through his essence, too. And Aziraphale’s lightning must have followed the path opened by her blade, burning the wound shut. His essence would have bled out otherwise, long before Aziraphale could have healed him. It was likely the only thing that saved his life, but wounds to the essence of a demon, or even an angel for that matter, are tricky things. They take much longer to heal than simple physical injuries. He can speed it, of course, but it won’t go away overnight.

He hesitates before looking down, afraid to see the extent of the damage. He turns his gaze outward instead, and finds his reflection in the floor length mirror beside the bed. It is both worse and better than he feared. His torso is covered in new scars. A crazy map of jagged electrical burns, starting over his heart and spreading out across his chest and up over his shoulders. They partially obscure the older scars, the remnant of his siblings’ judgment. He stands, moving closer to the mirror, gently prodding the newly healed skin with his fingers. Aziraphale had done a good job closing the surface wounds. Together, they should be able to take care of the rest.

His other scars are bare as well. The deep mark at the base of his neck where Gabriel slashed his throat. The round, puckered scar where Uriel’s blade had punched through his chest. The thick, angry mark of Sandalphon’s sword. And a new scar, just below the one that Uriel left, the place where Michael had run him through. It’s there that the electric burns start, stretching across the horrific patchwork of his damaged skin. He carries the marks of a thousand battles on his body, from the long, deep claw marks left by Asmodeus to the hundreds of tiny scratches from minor demons he has fought and killed. His skin is a record of every battle he has ever fought. His life has been God’s ultimate joke. The angel made to be Her greatest healer, turning himself into a creature of war and death. Looking at himself like this, he understands why his siblings cast him out and tried to kill him.

“Crowley?” He turns, and there, in the doorway, is Aziraphale. He reaches for his power, to hide at least the physical damage, but something in the angel’s face stops him. He stands, frozen, as Aziraphale slowly approaches.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, reverent. He reaches out, one hand settling on Crowley’s waist, the other coming up to curl around his neck, gently holding him in place. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes. “Truly, not a single being in the world can compare to you.” Without realizing he’s doing it, he projects an image into the bond. Crowley, as he sees him now. Tall, lithe, with the sun shining down on him through the window glowing in his hair and giving his skin a soft golden hue. Crowley can hardly believe that radiant being is him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale smiles. “Very beautiful.” Then, while Crowley is still struggling to come up with a reply, the hand on his neck releases him, only to take up his hand instead.

“Come now, dear one,” the angel says firmly. “I think you’ll feel better after a shower. And then, if you feel up to it, I should very much like to groom your wings.”

“I… um. Yeah. Yeah, ok.” It’s a little hard to wrap his head around it. Aziraphale _wants_ to groom his wings? He’d helped Aziraphale groom several times, over the past two years, but hadn’t yet had the courage to let the angel touch his.

Of course, Aziraphale catches his emotions through their bond. He stops, touching him softly on the cheek. “Your wings are lovely, dear,” he says. “And if you feel at all uncomfortable, you only have to say so and I’ll stop.” He waits until Crowley nods, then moves his hand, guiding him on towards the bathroom.

Crowley allows himself to be led, trying to sort out all the feelings in his head. Aziraphale deliberately says nothing as they pass the bloodstained coat soaking in a bucket of water, and Crowley, sensing his emotions through the bond, follows his lead and silently lets the angel herd him into the shower.

Together, they wash off the last of yesterday’s blood and grime from their bodies. Crowley is amazed, and a little frightened, by how much there is still, even after Aziraphale had helped clean him the night before. Dark coppery swirls of water make their way down the drain as the angel reaches up and rubs shampoo into his hair.

“I love your hair,” Aziraphale tells him as he works. “The color of it suits you so well. Though I must admit, while it is nice short like this, I do miss how long you had it in the old days. It framed your face so beautifully. I remember being jealous of the women who you let braid it.”

“You were?” Crowley grins, feeling lighter. “I’d never have guessed!”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale sends him a flash of memory through the bond, watching Crowley sitting at the edge of the well, while two young women worked an intricate series of braids into his hair. “I wanted to send them away, to take their place and run _my_ hands through your gorgeous hair.” He laughed a little at himself. “I didn’t know I was in love with you then, of course, and was very confused by how strongly I felt about it.”

“Oh, angel, you should have said,” Crowley grinned, projecting his own feelings of pleasure and amusement back to his angel. “Tempting an angel to jealousy, _that_ has got to be one of my crowning achievements as a demon.”

“Yes well,” Aziraphale hums. “You’re quite good at it. Envy. Greed. Wrath. I dare say, one of these days you’ll have me commit all seven of the deadly sins.”

“Is that a challenge?” he asks, joking. “Because you know I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale laughs at him. “Best not. You never know what you might unleash in me, and I rather like myself as I am, thank you.”

“I do too,” Crowley says, serious now. “Like you the way you are, I mean.”

“I know.” Aziraphale kisses his cheek. “Now lean down a bit please, love, I need to get the back of your head.”

Crowley obliges. “You know… I could make it longer, if you like. My hair.”

The angel shakes his head. “No, I know you’ve been growing it out naturally. I’m happy to wait.” He smiles. “Besides, I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with it when it’s not quite long enough to put up and starts falling into your eyes while you garden.”

That draws a chuckle out of the demon. “Probably just speed it up,” he says, ducking his head so Aziraphale can rinse out the shampoo. He tries not to look at how red the water is as it swirls down the drain. “Long hair _is_ fashionable again, after all.”

Aziraphale hums. “Hmm, but you do know you can do it just because you like it, and not because it’s fashionable, or because _I_ like it, yes?”

“Yeah, angel, I know,” Crowley nods. He likes being fashionable. It’s fun to keep up with the changing patterns of human preference, but now that it’s no longer his job to tempt them, he doesn’t mind if he skips a few years’ trends every now and then.

“Good,” Aziraphale says. “Now, turn around and let me get your back.”

He lets the angel wash him, enjoying the feel of his gentle hands cleansing him. It feels almost like a ritual. Like a rite to remove the evils of the past which, once finished, will allow him to emerge back into the world anew, freed from the pain of before. When his exhausted body starts to give out, Aziraphale steadies him, warm hands holding him close. He is incredibly gentle, sending bright bursts of love through the bond as he works, careful of the half-healed wounds under Crowley’s skin.

When they are both clean and dry once again, Aziraphale leads Crowley by the elbow back to the bed, and places a hand on the center of his back. “Come, dear heart,” he says. “Wings out.”

Crowley almost refuses, though he knows his wings need cleaning. If any of yesterday’s blood and grime has collected on his feathers it could cause significant damage, or even impair his ability to fly. Still, he’s always done this alone. He _should_ do this alone. He breathes in and then out, ready to ask the angel to leave him. Then he takes a look at Aziraphale’s face. He knows the set of that jaw, the tightness of those lips. If he’d seemed any less determined, Crowley might have turned away, insisting on doing it himself. Instead he grips the edge of the bed and reaches into the ether, slowly releasing all three pairs of his wings. Beside him, Aziraphale takes a startled breath.

“Angel?” he asks, concerned.

“It’s nothing,” the angel reassures him. “It’s just, every time I see them, I’m reminded of how wonderful your wings are.” He rests a hand at the base of his top pair, feeling the place where smooth skin gives way to soft feathers. Crowley shivers at the touch. Aziraphale has massaged his back before, touching him with such care, like he’s something precious, something priceless, that might break at the smallest force. But he’s never touched his wings before. No one has, not in six thousand years. “I thought so even when you brought out just the one set, but they’re even more wonderful like this.” His hand travels down, brushing the start of the second and then the third pairs. “You’ve kept them up so well.”

“Had to,” Crowley tells him, adjusting to the feel of another’s hand on his wings. “I like flying. And Hell ash can kill your wings if it stays on too long. I’d always find a good place to hide after a trip downstairs and spend a day or two just making sure nothing got in there, even if I didn’t bring them out the whole time.”

“So that’s why you made sure I groomed my wings after our little trick,” Aziraphale realizes. Crowley chuckles at his term for the body swap, remembering how confused Aziraphale had been at his insistence he clean his wings. It had been some hours after the revelation of his former identity, and they’d both been a little drunk when he’d realized the angel didn’t know about wing cleaning after visiting Hell. The resulting grooming session was still a hazy, dreamlike memory for him.

“I had to be sure you were safe,” he says. “I hated every second you were down there.”

“Well,” Aziraphale moves behind him, retrieving a small spray bottle filled with water. “Neither of us will be going anywhere near there, any time soon.”

His hand returns to Crowley’s back, the touch still startling despite how much more they’ve both been touching each other today. Crowley had been so scared, before, that his pain might overwhelm his angel. And now… now there’s no hiding from the bond between them. He wants to feel guilty about that. About forming a bond with someone else, when he can no longer reach his siblings. And about burdening Aziraphale with everything such a bond entails.

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale says, soft fingers combing through his feathers for stray debris. “You are not a burden, my dear. And you never will be.”

“I…”

“No.” He reaches out, turning Crowley’s face until the demon can see him, standing at his side, one hand still buried in the feathers of a dark wing. “Don’t even think it. For six thousand years, you protected me. Did you ever think of _me_ as a burden?”

The demon blinks, surprised. “No, of course not.”

“Then why would I think of you as one?” He shakes his head, and Crowley can feel his conviction inside their bond. “I _want_ to help you. I want to carry your pain, until we find a way to take it away entirely.” Inside the bond, he floods Crowley with his emotions. Love, and sorrow, and determination. _Don_ _’t you ever think yourself a burden on me_ , he adds silently. _I would move Heaven and Earth for you, my dear. The least I can do is share your load._

Crowley nods mutely, unable to respond beyond the bare emotion he allows to flow through their minds.

Aziraphale kisses him softly, then returns to his wings. As he works, Crowley concentrates on his pattern. It’s hard, when he’s constantly distracted by the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands on his wings, but he manages. It takes more effort than normal to bring his pattern forward to where he can work with it, calling the lines to hang just before his fingers. Aziraphale’s touch feels amazing, and it takes everything he has not to arch into it. All he wants is more of that touch, but if he lets himself feel this he’ll be a moaning, boneless, incoherent mess. He can’t allow that, especially not now. Not when he doesn’t know when his siblings will return, and what they might do now that they know who he is. So instead he gets to work, using all his considerable willpower to force himself to ignore the wonderful sensation.

He winces when he sees the damage to the golden lines, the dead grey areas Aziraphale had not been able to heal. To his practiced eye, he can also see all the places he _had_ cured, the deeper healing still glowing faintly with the residual of his power. All things considered, Aziraphale has done an amazing job. He would never have given a task like this to a novice healer. The damage is too deep, too widespread. The burns extend well into his essence, spreading across his metaphysical form. He is lucky. He can see so clearly now, if Aziraphale had not called down the lightning and burned his wounds closed, his soul would have bled out from his metaphysical heart before he even heard Azrael’s offer.

The healing of his physical body is simple, but his true infernal form… as Raphael, he would only ever have given someone with wounds that bad to a master healer. One who had practice on metaphysical injury. Even so, somehow Aziraphale managed it, forcing life back into the worst of it all, stopping the bleeding and chasing out the rot that would have killed him just as surely, only slower. What is left will not kill him, but neither will it heal easily. He cannot take care of it himself, not on his metaphysical body. And Aziraphale is not a strong enough healer to reach that deep into his pattern. There are medicines he can make for this, but they will only do so much to speed it along. He will carry this pain for weeks yet, but he does not mind. It is so much less than the pain of the past six thousand years, and it will heal far more quickly.

He has, however, noted Aziraphale’s distress at the large burn scars across his chest. He can feel a twinge of guilt from the angel every time he looks at them. That, at least, he can take care of. Slowly, constantly distracted each time the angel moves on to a new portion of his wings, he draws more light into his pattern. Just as slowly, the worst of the burns start to fade away. They shrink from ropes, to string, to the barest thread. And then they are gone entirely, leaving only a ragged burn in the place where Michael had run him through. The effort drains him, using up the last of his regained strength.

That done, he has nothing to distract him from the pleasure of Aziraphale’s hands on his wings. He leans into it, unable to deny himself any longer. The gentle touch of his angel is doing far more now to heal him than any miracle. How long has it been, since he let someone groom him like this? Before the War, for sure. Uriel, he thinks, was the last. His little sister. He thinks he remembers her cornering him after one of those early battles, and informing him that she was going to clean his wings. It had been soon after, that everything had started moving so fast, giving him no more time to share his love with his family. He hadn’t believed he would ever be able to share his love again, until that night after the failed apocalypse, when Aziraphale confessed to him.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale tells him, hands stilling in his feathers. “I can feel you worrying.”

“Just thinking,” he replies. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, to have you here with me.”

“Well,” the angel shrugs, resuming his work. “I could say it’s all part of Her plan -”

Crowley makes a face. “Please don’t.”

“As I was saying,” Aziraphale says, attempting to sound cross, though Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “I _could_ say it’s all a part of the Plan, but I think it’s something more than that.”

“More than God’s will?” the demon asks, surprised.

“Mm,” Aziraphale hums. “I think it was us. Our choices. We chose each other, did we not? I think, in choosing, we have made our own path. Outside of the Great Plan. Perhaps even outside of the Ineffable one.”

Crowley twists to look at him, shocked. “You think She didn’t plan this?”

“Stay still,” Aziraphale orders him, shifting until he can reach the wing again. “I’m almost done. And yes. Or, rather, I think She overlooked it, when she placed us on this path.”

“Meaning?” Crowley didn’t moan as he deftly straightened a crooked feather, but it was a near thing.

“Meaning, I think she always meant for us to try to stop the apocalypse. But beyond that, well. I chose to bind my essence to you, when I felt you dying. And to heal you, when I found you in the Garden. You chose to try to protect me, again and again, for six thousand years.” He sprays a fine mist of water on another patch of feathers, humming in pleasure when they’re clean once again. “You chose to work with me, to stop the apocalypse. And I chose to follow where you led. And there, at the end, we chose to protect each other. We _chose_ , do you see?”

Crowley shook his head, not quite following what Aziraphale meant. “I don’t think I do.”

“Free will.” Aziraphale states, patting the last of his feathers back into place. “Angels aren’t supposed to have it, are they? Nor are demons.”

He blinks, starting to understand. “No,” he says. “No, they are not. But we…”

“Yes.” His angel nods, moving now to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. “We have free will. And we used it to choose each other.”

“Oh.” It makes sense. Of course it makes sense. He had been destined to Fall, of course. But what he did after that… he had learned to make his own choices. And so had Aziraphale. “We chose,” he echoes.

Aziraphale nods. “We chose to bind our patterns together. We chose to defy Heaven and Hell to keep each other alive. We chose to move here, to our own little Eden. And yesterday, in front of Death himself, we chose to fight for each other, to keep each other alive.”

Crowley thinks about that. About the choice Azrael had offered him. And the decision he had made. His choice. Not a part of the Great Plan, or the Ineffable one. _His_. And his alone.

“Oh,” he says again. And then, because he means it, he adds “I’ll always choose you, you know that, right?”

Aziraphale smiles at him, and he can feel his love through the bond. “Yes,” he says. “As I choose you.” And then, because he’s a bit of a bastard like that, he moves until he’s facing Crowley, and then he kisses him senseless.

**Author's Note:**

> [This work is reblogable from my writing blog](https://wanderingalicewrites.tumblr.com/post/629725526235447296/castle-of-glass)   
>  [Come say hi on my tumblr!](https://wanderingsofal.tumblr.com/)


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